


Show Me the Sun

by somethingnerdythiswaycomes



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2016-2017 NHL Season, Alternate Universe - BDSM, Anal Sex, D/s AU, M/M, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Polyamory, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2016-11-14
Packaged: 2018-08-29 19:00:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8501635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somethingnerdythiswaycomes/pseuds/somethingnerdythiswaycomes
Summary: He's Hank's.  The whole team is.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So here's the fic about the Rangers system, as mentioned in 'Hurricane'.
> 
> I do not represent the real people presented as characters in this fic, nor do I make any claims about what they do or do not do in their private lives.

Marc sits in his stall and takes a deep breath.

It’s their first game – the first game that counts, anyway – and they _won_ , they won 5-3 but Hank let in three goals in the last period and Marc doesn’t know what kind of mood that’ll leave him in.

But they won, and that means Hank’s going to be picking someone for sure.

Out of all the things he misses about his team and the city over the offseason, this has to be the biggest one.  He still gets to see Hank every so often between seasons, but it’s not the same.

There’s something special about Hank looking around the locker room and choosing Marc, over everyone else, even though every off day and after most losses it’s Marc that’ll be going home with him anyway.

“He’s gonna choose, right?” Vesey whispers, leaning a little bit closer to Marc.

Marc tilts his head to look at him.  Vesey’s eyes are wide, his bottom lip held firmly in his teeth.  Marc nods.

“Who do you think it’ll be?”

“Can never tell,” Marc replies, and goes back to staring out at the room.

Hank’s not even in the room yet, and Marc already feels desperate.  Hank’s been teasing him the entire preseason – the off season, too – and he’s about ready to burst.  Especially after skate this morning, when Hank had pulled him into an empty room down the hall from the trainers and swallowed his cock down and pressed his fingers to Marc’s entrance and just when Marc gasped out that he was gonna come, pulled away and told him no.

It’s been like that since they came back to New York.  Hank won’t fuck him, and he won’t let him come.  After their first preseason game, a handy win at home over the Islanders, Hank had jerked him off slow and sweet, scattering kisses over his shoulders and his chest, and then pulled back and sent him to his own apartment, still hard.

 _You know the rules_ , Hank had murmured in his ear.  _You’re going to wait for me_.

And Marc waited, through the next game, when Hank just talked to him and didn’t even touch him, and the next, when Hank played with his nipples until they ached and Marc cried, and the next, and the next…

But if Hank chose Marc tonight, he’d let him come.  Marc always got to come when Hank chooses him after a game.  Usually that was the only time he was allowed to.

Hank came back into the room, mask tilted up and grin over his face.  Marc slid forward to the edge of his seat, fingers digging into his thighs.

Hank wouldn’t pick right away, though.  He liked to tease the whole team, have all their eyes on him, hungry and wanting, just waiting to see who’d get to go home with him.  Marc knows Hank likes the attention, even if he hasn’t said it.  It’s too obvious in how he preens every time someone calls him _King_.

Hank turns to face the room and everyone falls silent.  He takes his time, looking each of them up and down, eyes skipping over bare chests and sweaty hair, until he’s made a whole circuit of the room.  Then he stands up and crosses straight to Marc.

Marc’s breath catches in his throat.  He doesn’t get a chance to get it back, not when Hank fists his hand in Marc’s hair and pulls him into a hard kiss as soon as he’s close enough.

Marc groans, his hand grasping the front of Hank’s shirt.  Hank doesn’t just kiss – he dominates, sweeping his tongue in and stealing your breath, until you can’t think of anything else but keeping it going.

But it’s not a sure thing until Hank says it.  Hank’s done that before.

Finally, Hank pulls back, staring into Marc’s eyes.

“You’re coming home with me,” he rasps, and Marc nods.

The tension shifts in the room, from everyone focusing on Hank to focusing on each other, seeking out their usual partners, a couple vets deciding who’s going to take Vesey.  Hank smiles at Marc, the sweetness belied by the heat in his eyes.

Marc shivers, and lets Hank lead him into the showers.

They shower separately, but Marc can’t keep his eyes off Hank.  He sees him naked all the time – in the locker room, and in one of their apartments, but it’s different after a win.  It’s the only time he really feels like he has some sort of ownership over Hank, the same kind Hank has over him.

He isn’t under any illusions, though.  He’s Hank’s.  The whole team is.

“Meet me at my car,” Hank tells him, and leaves the showers with his towel around his waist.

Marc finishes showering quickly, hurrying back into the room and pulling on his suit.  By the time he’s dressed, Hank’s already gone, and he pulls on his jacket as he stalks out of the room.

“Go get ‘im,” Kreids says as Marc passes him.  Marc shoots him a smile; if anyone has a reason to resent Marc for this it’s Kreids, who got the game winner and by all rights should be the one Hank took home.

But Kreids knows Hank’ll make it up to him.

Hank’s leaning against his car when Marc comes outside.  They don’t talk as they get into the car, or as Hank pulls out into the city.

They stop at a light on 8th Avenue, and Hank looks over at Marc.

“Touch yourself,” Hank says.

Marc startles.  “What?”

“Touch yourself,” Hank says again.

“But—” Marc glances out the window, at all the cars surrounding them, at the crowds of people on the sidewalk.

“Marc.”  Hank’s voice is sharper, and Marc immediately straightens in his seat.  “Touch yourself.  Now.”

Marc swallows and presses his palm against the front of his slacks.  Just at that simple touch, he’s already getting hard, and as Hank watches, he presses again.

“Don’t want to ruin your pants,” Hank tells him.  The light turns green, and the car starts moving again.

Marc bites his lip, but he undoes his belt and his zip, pushing his trousers and briefs down to his thighs.  He can’t help glancing at the window, at every other car stuck in traffic with them and the pedestrians waiting for the walk sign or just walking around the stopped cars.

“Isn’t someone going to see?” Marc asks, even as he closes his fist around his cock.

“Tinted windows,” Hank replies, and Marc relaxes a little.  “Even if they do, it doesn’t matter.  The whole city should know you’re mine.”

Marc whines and bucks into his hand.  God, he’s already close to coming.  He’s already _so close_ and he knows he can’t.

It usually takes about twenty minutes to get home from the arena.  Marc keeps an eye on the time on the dashboard, trying to keep his hand moving slowly over himself so he doesn’t get too riled up too fast.

“Have you touched yourself since we’ve been back?” Hank asks.

“No,” Marc gasps.

They stop at a light, and Hank reaches over to pinch Marc on the thigh, hard.

“No, Sir!”

“Thank you,” Hank says, and pulls his hand back.

“You haven’t come?”

“No, Sir.”

“You haven’t let anyone else touch you?”

“No, Sir.”

“Good.”

His voice is steeped in satisfaction, and Marc shivers.

“Keep going.”

Marc lets out a breath and speeds up his hand, trying to keep from bucking into it.

But what he really wants is Hank’s hands on him, Hank’s mouth on his, Hank’s cock inside him.  It’s been too long – since before they flamed out of the playoffs.  It’s not enough, just getting Hank’s fingers every so often over the off season.

“Please,” he moans, even though he knows there’s nothing Hank can do right now.  They’re still in the car, and it’s going to be another five minutes until they’re home.  Once they’re there, there’s no telling how long it’ll be until Hank actually fucks him, actually lets him come.

“What do you want, Marc?” Hank asks, putting his hand on Marc’s thigh.

Marc just shakes his head and bites his lip, still pumping his cock.  He – he can’t have Hank touch him like this, he’s going to come –

“Don’t come,” Hank says sharply.  “Don’t you dare.”

Marc clenches his jaw and jams his eyes shut.  It’s hard, he has to…

“Two more minutes until we’re home,” Hank soothes.  “Just two more minutes.”

“I can’t,” Marc manages.

“Yes you can.”

Marc nods, and Hank pulls his hand away.

“Play with your balls instead,” Hank says.

“Thank you, Sir,” Marc whispers, letting go of his cock and cupping his balls instead.  It’s easier to control himself that way, to roll them with his fingers and then, when he gets too close, tug just enough to pull himself back from the edge.

“That’s the last bit of mercy I’m giving you tonight.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Hank doesn’t say anything else, and Marc keeps his eyes closed as he touches his balls, not wanting to know how much time he still has to make it through.

He can feel it, though, when Hank pauses at the entrance to the garage in his building and has to open the window to use his parking pass.  Marc just breathes, and keeps touching himself, and when the window’s shut again Hank hums in approval.

“Pull up your pants,” Hank tells him.  “Get inside.”

Marc hurries to redo his pants, rebuckle his belt, and stumbles getting out of the car.  Hank’s there in an instant, his arm curling around Marc’s waist and holding him close, steadying him as they take the elevator up to Hank’s apartment.  It feels like fire, Hank’s hand on his hip, tucked under his suit jacket, and Hank pressed up against his side, and Hank’s lips, too, when he presses a fleeting kiss to Marc’s cheek and murmurs, “Almost there.”

He should’ve expected it, really, when as soon as Hank ushers him into his apartment and shuts the door, he pushes Marc up against the wall and kisses him, hard.  But Marc is still surprised when his back is to the wall, Hank’s mouth over his and Hank’s hands tugging his shirt out of his slacks.

“Sir,” Marc gasps, when Hank breaks the kiss to suck a spot high on Marc’s neck.  “Sir, _please—_ ”

“Shh,” Hank murmurs, cupping Marc’s cock through his pants.  Marc arches into him, gripping Hank’s shoulders tightly.  Hank pulls away immediately, grabbing Marc’s hands and pressing them into the wall.  “Don’t move.”

Marc swallows and looks down at Hank, biting his lip and… waiting.  Hank studies him, before gripping his chin and kissing him firmly on the mouth.

“Bedroom,” Hank tells him.  “Naked.  On the bed.  Back.  Legs spread.”

Marc shivers, and when Hank takes a step back, hurries down the hall to Hank’s bedroom, already pulling his suit jacket off.

He can’t get undressed fast enough – but he still has to do it the way Hank wants.  Every time he sheds a piece of clothing and just wants to toss it on the floor, do whatever will get him on the bed faster, he can’t.  He hangs up his suit, smoothing out the creases, and his shirt, and puts his tie on Hank’s tie rack, and drops his undershirt and briefs and socks in the laundry bin.  His shoes get lined up against the wall next to the closet.  And then, trembling slightly, he crawls up onto the bed and lies down in the middle.

The pillows smell like Hank.  The whole bed does, and he turns his face into the pillow to breathe in the smell of Hank’s cologne and whatever else it is that makes him smell so good, even after a whole 60 minutes on the ice.  And then he spreads his legs, planting his feet on the bed, curling his fingers in the comforter to stop himself from just stroking his cock and coming all over himself.

Fuck – what if Hank makes him wait even longer, leaves Marc here on the bed, exposed, and takes his time, maybe cooks something for their post-game and post-play snack, instead of just pulling out the apples he sliced that morning.  Maybe he makes a cup of tea, like he likes to sometimes, and makes Marc wait while he drinks it, maybe he brings it into the bedroom and sits in the chair next to the window and watches Marc while he makes him wait –

And then Hank comes into the room, his hands empty, his eyes burning bright, Marc swallows.

“You look gorgeous,” Hank tells him, his voice low.  Marc shivers.  He takes a couple steps closer, until he can brush his fingertips against Marc’s knee.  “You must be so desperate.”

“Yes, Sir,” Marc murmurs.

Hank drags his fingers up Marc’s thigh, to the crease of his groin.  “How long has it been?”

“Three weeks since you let me come,” Marc manages to say.  “Five months since you fucked me.”

“Five long months, hmm?” Hank asks, smoothing his hand up Marc’s stomach.

“Yes, Sir.”

“You want me to touch you?”

“ _Yes,_ Sir.”

Hank smiles and brushes his lips over Marc’s stomach, and just when Marc sucks in a breath, wraps his hand around his cock and squeezes.

It feels like too much, and not enough, and Marc can’t stop from bucking up into Hank’s hand.

“Shh,” Hank says, and that’s when Marc realizes he’s whining.

Hank pulls his hand back a second later, and Marc has to take a deep breath to keep from begging for it back.

But Hank’s taking the lube out from the bedside table, and slicking his fingers, and before Marc can even ask Hank’s slipping a finger inside of him.

It’s been so long – five _months_ – since he’s had something inside him.  He almost forgot what it felt like, except how could he forget the pressure of Hank’s fingers, how they’ll stretch him and unerringly press into his prostate.

Even if it’s been an eternity since Hank’s fucked him, Marc still opens up easily for his fingers.  He doesn’t know how to be anything but exactly what Hank wants of him; Hank wants to fuck him, so Marc relaxes into the bed, spreads his knees wider, and gasps a moan into the pillow case.

“Beautiful,” Hank murmurs, and Marc glows, arching up and peering down at Hank between his knees.  Hank’s always intense, does nothing by half-measures, and that includes taking Marc apart.  He has his eyes on Marc’s face as he slips another finger in, and a grin twitches on his lips when Marc shudders and closes his eyes.

“Hank,” Marc whines, reaching down to slip his fingers in Hank’s hair.

He gets a stinging slap to his thigh in return, and Marc’s hand flies back to the bed, clutching the comforter again.

“Do you want me to fuck you?” Hank asks, his voice low and rough.

“Yes, Sir,” Marc moans.

“Then you know the rules.”

Marc nods furiously.

“One more chance,” Hank tells him, and thrusts in another finger.  Marc bucks back, his chest heaving as he tries to keep his breathing under control and not touch Hank and not touch himself and _not come_.

“Are you ready?” Hank asks, scraping his teeth over the inside of Marc’s thigh.

“ _Yes!_ ”

And then Hank is kneeling up, still in his suit, the knot of his tie still snug at the base of his throat, and undoes the buckle of his belt with the one hand not slick with lube.  He opens his trousers and pulls his cock out – not wearing underwear, did he never put them on after the game or did he take them off while Marc waited on the bed?  Either way, it’s fucking hot, and Marc can’t even _think_.

Hank grabs Marc’s thighs and pulls his legs wider apart, and Marc can feel the rough texture of his suit scraping against his skin, Hank hasn’t taken any of his clothes off, barely looks different than when they left the arena except for his hard cock jutting out from his pants.

And then he’s thrusting in, not pausing, not giving Marc time to adjust by starting slow, just thrusts in until his hips are pressed to Marc’s ass.

Marc cries out, back bowing off the bed, his hands flying up to grip the slats of the headboard.  Hank groans, grinding in, and in, not pulling out, just small movements of his hips that make his cock rub over Marc’s prostate.

The best thing – besides having Hank inside him, finally – is that Hank doesn’t tell Marc to stay still, and if he wants him to, he ties him down.  So Marc doesn’t have to worry about thrashing around on the bed, bracing himself against the headboard and trying to grind down on Hank’s cock, tightening his thighs around Hank’s waist.

Hank’s lost all sense of composure, his hair hanging in his face, mouth open as he pants, holding Marc’s hips with a bruising grip.  Marc can’t take his eyes off of Hank’s face.  He doesn’t want to.

“Fuck,” Marc whines, that shivery feeling starting in his stomach, his cock almost aching.

“You want to come?” Hank asks, licking his lips when Marc nods quickly.  “You going to ask me?”

“Please, Sir,” Hank moans.  “Please, can I come?”

“Come,” Hank growls, and Marc’s helpless to do anything else.  His orgasm rips through him, tearing him apart, burning him up, his entire being reduced down to where Hank’s thrusting into him.  He comes for what feels like forever, until finally he slumps back into the bed, Hank’s hands sliding down to his thighs to keep his legs up, when Marc finds he can’t do it himself any more.

“Stunning,” Hank hisses, and then he thrusts in again and comes, grinding into Marc and sending shockwaves through him.

Marc can barely keep his eyes open as Hank pulls out of him, swiping his thumb over Marc’s entrance and making him shiver.

“So perfect for me,” Hank tells him, pulling a granola bar from his bedside table and breaking off a small piece, pressing it to Marc’s lips until Marc opens his mouth and chews it.  “Always so good, Marc.”

“Thank you,” Marc whispers, after he swallows the bite of food.  “Thank you, Sir.”

Hank kisses him gently, his hand cupping Marc’s jaw, and then feeds him another bite.

He climbs off the bed, then, and starts undressing, his suit going on a hanger on the valet rack, his shirt into the hamper, his tie on the tie rack next to Marc’s, his shoes on the floor with Marc’s as well.

Marc watches, eyes skating over Hank’s body, still a little incredulous that Hank wants _him_ , of all people.

Hank’s an attractive, talented Dom.  He could have whoever he wants – gets his pick of the Rangers on a regular basis, even, and could get most of the subs in the NHL if he really wanted them.  But Hank wants him.

Of course, Marc knows he’s attractive, himself, and at least talented enough to get to the NHL, and Hank’s spent evenings pressing kisses and compliments into Marc’s skin.

Hank turns around, and catches Marc’s eye, and smiles.

“What’re you thinking about?” Hank asks, coming back to the bed and working the sheets and comforter out from under Marc, then tugging it up around him, tucking Marc in tightly on one side before crawling in next to him on the other.

Marc wasn’t expecting Hank to clean him off – Hank likes leaving Marc full of his come, covered in his own.  Marc’s pretty sure it has something to do with how much Hank loves to deny him and make him wait.

“What’re you thinking about?” Hank asks again, wrapping his arms around Marc’s waist.

“Nothing,” Marc says, relaxing back against him.

Hank huffs a laugh against his neck, and Marc smiles.

“Love you,” Hank whispers, pressing a kiss just under his jaw.

Marc slides his hand down to curl around Hank’s, and whispers back, “Love you, too.”

Hank kisses him again, in the same spot, and Marc falls asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> This word doc was appropriately titled 'King Henrik'.
> 
> Join me in sin on tumblr @ somethingnerdythiswaycomes


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